Not a Killer
by Destiny JoRayne Adams
Summary: On a case involving a fourteen-year-old girl who was murdered, Neal finds out something about himself.  Short oneshot because apparently I am incapable of writing anything longer.  Enjoy.


_A/N: Written for a prompt on collarcorner on LJ. Lots and lots of thanks to SherlockXHolmes23 for the awesome beta. I did play afterwards, so all mistakes are still mine. And yes, before you ask, the characters are all mine and that's exactly why I am in a tiny town in North Dakota, freezing to death. Sh, don't tell anyone. And in case you missed it, that was complete sarcasm. _

-000-

"Put it down, Neal!"

Though most people assumed that Neal didn't listen to Peter very well, he did actually listen to him most of the time. He recognized that Peter usually knew what he was doing, and Neal knew that as valuable as he was to the FBI, it would never really be his scene, nor did he have the experience that Peter did. So, when Neal was at the office, it was common for him to just sit back and let Peter take the lead.

But this time he couldn't.

The gun felt shaky and heavy in his hands and for a second he almost thought it was going to fall. He readjusted his grip slightly, but not so much to leave an opening. Just because he didn't like guns didn't mean he didn't know how to use them.

He knew that Peter was behind him, with his own gun drawn, pointing at Simon Anthony who was standing with his hands in the air a few feet away, a smug smile painted on his face. Neal could read right through that smile; had seen it in the mirror enough times. Anthony honestly thought that he was off scot free; diplomatic immunity seemed a good enough escape route.

"Neal!"

Anthony was a new player to the scene, well, maybe not _new, _but Neal had never heard of him until only a couple of months before. He was a brilliant forger—good enough to get past Neal, it had been Mozzie who had first pointed out the fake. But Anthony hadn't been happy with just copying somebody else's work. Whenever he done a heist—always switching the art, it was his M.O.—he would leave a message: one dead body at the scene. For months, the FBI had been tracking him, heist by heist, body by body, and when they had finally caught up with him, jail seemed too good for him.

Because his last victim had been a girl who had been barely fourteen years old, she had a long and bright future ahead of her, before it was viciously cut off by one man's greediness.

"Neal, put down the gun! Now!" There was steel in Peter's tone, but he didn't move. A part of Neal's mind realized that that was because Peter didn't know if he could, he wasn't sure if Neal would give him a chance.

It should feel bad, that Peter would feel that way, but Neal couldn't feel any guilt. All he saw was the photo on a girl who deserved so much better. That's not what they did; it's not what _forgers _did. Yes, there were some of those who were known for violence, but it wasn't about that, it was about the art. Every single one of Anthony's crime scenes had come with a body; he wasn't a forger, he was a serial killer.

Maybe it was that fact alone that caused Neal to be able to stand there, gun in hand with no thoughts of regret about what he was able to do. Scum like Anthony didn't deserve to live. He didn't deserve to have something like jail, which despite its reputation was comfortable living. No, Anthony didn't deserve that. Neal took another step forward, but took care not to get close enough for Anthony to knock the weapon out of his hand.

"Neal," Peter's tone changed. Now, instead of ordering, it was placating. "Neal, look, you don't want to do this."

Neal didn't move, not lowering his weapon, but not acknowledging Peter either.

"Neal, this is not you. You are not a killer."

Normally Neal would agree with him, no, he was not a killer. He had always shielded away from violence; he had always felt like it had been unnecessary. That was the main thing that Keller had hated about him, Keller had been willing to do anything to get what he wanted, but Neal was more prone to just let something go.

"Neal, I know you. I spent years of my life chasing you, studying you, following you, I know you. Just because I may not know every detail of your life doesn't make me know you any less. This is not who you are. You are not a killer; you don't want to hurt anybody."

It was sudden, like a light had turned on. _This is not who you are. _He suddenly dropped the weapon on the ground and vomited into the street. _You are not a killer. _But he had been only a breath away from firing a weapon and ending somebody's life.

By the time Neal had finished emptying his stomach, the thought of turning around and facing Peter was almost as distressing as the thought of what he had almost done.

He turned around, resigning himself that he had to face Peter at some time. Diana had already handcuffed Anthony and was escorting him to the police car. He refused to meet Peter's eyes, instead going immediately to Peter's car and slipped into the passenger seat. Suddenly feeling exhausted, he leaned his head against the back of the seat and closed his eyes.

He felt the car dip as Peter got in, but he didn't open his eyes. He knew Peter was looking at him, and he was waiting for the lecture.

But Peter didn't begin lecturing. He just dropped him off at June's with a simple, "Be around so that we can take your statement."

He took the reprieve and hauled himself up the stairs and closed the door heavily behind him. He sank on the side of his bed and put his head in his hands. He could still feel the smoothness of the gun in his hand, the feeling of horror and hate churning in his gut. Now, the thought of taking another human life filled made him feel sick, there was still a part of him that was still knew why he had taken up the gun. It wasn't fair; nobody deserved to die the way that Katelyn Holland had. It just wasn't fair.

And her murderer was being hauled off to jail, where there was a chance that he would escape and be loose on the streets again. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew that if Anthony did escape, Peter would do everything he could to get him back behind bars. As good as Anthony was, Peter was better.

He scrubbed his hair back with his hands and walked over to the sink to splash cold water on his face. He looked at his reflection in the mirror and focused on his eyes, half afraid he would find something different, something darker. But they were the same eyes that stared back at him every day, and something deep within Neal's gut unwound itself and let go.

Peter was right. He's not a killer.

_-1.146_


End file.
